


String Theory

by Nekositting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 2k18 Christmas Fest, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Community: tomionekinkmeme, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Minister for Magic Hermione Granger, Multiple Universes, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:33:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Nekositting
Summary: It was a difficult situation, indeed. But, as Hermione's father once said:Corner an animal and that is when it's most dangerous.Her circumstances would not be grim for long. Not if she had a say in it.





	String Theory

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I was writing porn, but apparently, this grew a plot and led me in a different direction.
> 
> Enjoy the unresolved sexual tension, instead!
> 
> Happy Holidays!

Hermione tried not to laugh, her hand coming up to stifle the sound that wanted to escape when Slughorn spilled his drink all over the poor, dark-haired bloke he’d been speaking to.

It was ridiculous how Slughorn got during these festivities. One would think that the  _context_  of all things would give the man much-needed restraint, but—

Hermione winced when the glass then slipped from his hand and smashed against the ground, splattering the man’s shoes with not only the beverage in Slughorn’s cup but  _pieces of glass_  as well.

Honestly, it was embarrassing. It was a good thing, indeed, that Hermione was there to clean this whole mess up. The last thing the school needed was for Slughorn to tarnish its reputation. She’d worked hard rallying the Wizengamot to get much-needed funding for the school, and this spectacle was the last thing she needed. They’d sniff this little thing out like the wolves they were and place more unnecessary restrictions on funding.

All her hard work gone to waste.

With a wave of her hand, her wandless magic honed after  _years_  of practice, the glass reassembled itself and the bloke’s pants dried. It was as if the whole incident had not occurred, and she was more than satisfied at the way Slughorn paused.

His eyes were crinkled with confusion, unsure of  _how_  everything had managed to mend itself when his wand was still stuffed in his pocket. Hermione took that moment to step forward, away from the groups of socialites gathered by the alcohol table, to press a soothing hand to his shoulder.

Slughorn looked at her, eyes hazy, before awareness sparked to life in their depths.

“Oh! Minister  _Granger_ , I should have known it would be you coming to my rescue!”

She plastered on a sweet smile she didn’t truly feel, releasing his shoulder immediately when he rounded on her and ignored the man he had been speaking to moments ago. If the man was annoyed, he didn’t show it.

 _Though_ , Hermione thought with a wince,  _the bloke definitely had to be_. The strange left as soon as the opportunity arose, not bothering to introduce himself or give his goodbyes to Slughorn. From the rigid set of his shoulders and the way he moved past guests milling about in the shimmering ballroom, he’d definitely been annoyed.

Hermione couldn’t blame him. Had she been in his shoes, invited to share a wondrous evening at the Slug Club Christmas party, she too would have lost her nerve at being ignored only moments after Slughorn had spilled his drink all over her.

_Oh well._

It wasn’t Hermione’s problem now. She’d done her part. Nothing could be done about it by this point.

“Well, if you didn’t place yourself in these situations, sir, you wouldn’t need me to give you a hand.”

Slughorn sputtered, cheeks flushing a bright red that made Hermione think of a ripe and plump tomato before he laughed aloud once more. It was a boisterous sound, and Hermione winced, eardrums ringing despite the subtle music playing in the background.

“True true, Minister. Though, I say,  _where_  is Mr. Weasley? I would have thought you would have brought him with you as your plus one?”

Hermione stiffened, a spark of annoyance flaring in her chest.

Right.

No one was aware that she and Ron had split up in the past week. It was surprising given the fact that she was Minister of Magic, and Ron was an Auror of all things. Rita Skeeter should have been salivating with anticipation to write this story and smear her name. Seems that she had yet to catch wind of it.

 _Thank Merlin for that_ , Hermione thought. Knowing the woman, it’d be on the front page for bloody weeks, a new sprinkle of lies in each issue.

“Ronald and I are no longer seeing one another, Professor. We’ve gone our separate ways, you see—”

There was a look of surprise in his gaze that quickly melted into concern, and Hermione tried not to bristle. There it was.  _The pity_.

Hermione braced herself.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Miss Granger. You’re an  _excellent_  young woman. A bright and successful witc—”

“Yes, yes, that is true. But nevermind that, tell me about your students. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the chance to stop by and see how my favorite professors are doing,” Hermione interrupted, desperate to move the conversation elsewhere. She didn’t need his or anyone else’s sympathies about Ron.

It’d been a choice both of them had made. Neither of them was upset with one another, though there’d been a couple of angry words and snarls flung in either direction at first. But that was resolved now. Nothing a few nights apart to think about their relationship as a whole couldn’t remedy.

Slughorn’s face twisted into one of great delight, and Hermione's chest warmed with  _victory_.  Her little evasive tactic had worked. A genuine smile crossed her lips when he began to tremble with obvious excitement.

“Oh, why, of  _course_ , Miss Granger. I can tell you all about the brightest young man that has ever set foot, I say, in Hogwarts, since well,  _you_.”

Her brow lifted despite herself, her interest piqued. She had gotten almost all Os in her time at Hogwarts, setting the record for the most Os achieved in all of Hogwarts history. For someone else to come after her title, well, that was most impressive. That was not an easy feat to accomplish given she’d missed the O for Defense Against the Dark Arts by a  _hair_.

“Really? Who is this bright student after my hard-earned title?” Hermione teased, and Slughorn’s chest swelled, his shoulders rising with pride.

“He’s quite the charmer, that Tom. You should meet him, it would be good for him to become acquainted with someone as talented and skilled as you.”

A blush formed over her cheeks at the praise, the slight buzz from her own drink finally making itself known in the easy way she patted him on the shoulder. It was amazing what alcohol could do. It made even the surliest of characters easy to be around. Herself included, of course. She knew she wasn’t in the best of spirits herself, not after the freshness of her breakup.

Lifting her glass, she made to take another gulp of her drink but stopped. The cup was empty.

Her brows quirked, confusion dancing along her gaze. Well, it seemed that she hadn’t been as careful as she had thought with her alcohol consumption if the glass was  _already_  empty.

“Ah, sir, it seems I’ve finished my drink. Would you excuse me for one moment while I grab another?”

Slughorn waved her off, a smile still slung over his lips.

“Of course, have a drink! You’re one of the busiest women in this room.”

He winked, and Hermione only shook her head, turning around and heading directly for the table a short distance away. There were bottles stacked over it, bowls of punch and other beverages organized in a haphazard fashion that spoke more to the chaos that evening than anything else.

It was cluttered with people, which was hardly a surprise. Whenever there was the promise of alcohol, especially  _free_ ; well, most witches and wizards tended to cluster around the area as if at any moment’s notice it might disappear. She’d been one of those witches, and though it was out of character for her to indulge when she was out in public, she found that this was precisely what she needed.

The occasion lent itself for this moment of brashness. After all, she was fresh out of a breakup, alone at a party where socialites attempted to make small talk about her decisions with legislation, and in need of a distraction.

“Excuse me, Miss—?” A voice came from her left, masculine in nature.

Hermione froze, hand stopping in mid-air as she reached for one of the glasses sitting at the top of a champagne pyramid.

“Yes?” Hermione asked, casting one last mournful look at the champagne before turning to the voice.

Her breath caught, surprise and confusion making her mouth quiver.

Before her stood the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life. He was tall, taller than any man should be, with his shoulders level with her face. His eyes were an intense shade of brown, nearly black, like the bottom of an ocean. His hair was impeccably groomed, controlled. The only give— _break_ — from the tidiness, the single curl that dangled over his forehead. He looked young, too, as if he were just emerging from the chrysalis of childhood.

It took her longer than what was appropriate to recover, unable to quite believe that someone that pretty could actually exist.

“I saw you speaking to Professor Slughorn, and I thought I might introduce myself.” His voice was low and silky, the gleam of his eyes twinkling with interest.

Hermione smiled despite herself, entranced by the shape of his mouth and the way his pale cheeks even warmed beneath her scrutiny. It was, dare she say it,  _cute_.

“I’m Hermione Granger, though, it’s surprising you don’t know me already, given that I’m Minister of Magic,” she teased, a laugh leaving her when the handsome stranger colored an even brighter red.

“You’re  _the_  Hermione Granger? I’m sorry for not recognizing you.” A sheepish smile curled over his lips, and Hermione knew in that instant that she was in trouble. There was a telltale flutter in her stomach, one that she couldn’t quite blame on the alcohol.

He outstretched his hand, and Hermione took it, a shock of warmth curling up her arm when he bent forward to press a chaste kiss to her knuckles. All without taking his eyes from hers.

_Merlin, who was he?_

“My name is Tom Riddle. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Hermione’s breath caught, dazzled by the slow smile that crept over his face. It was beguiling, otherworldly, how he managed to suck out all the air from her lungs with just his gaze. Embarrassing, too, given that she’d vowed to herself after the whole Lockhart scandal that she’d never be charmed by a handsome face again.

 _But what’s the harm in getting a name? In making a friend?_  A traitorous voice murmured in the back of her mind at the same time Riddle let go of her hand and stepped back.

The distance did nothing for her restraint, however. Hermione’s breaths were shallow, even now.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Riddle—”

“Please, call me Tom,” he interrupted, a flush burning up his cheeks. Hermione smiled despite herself, a laugh bubbling up her throat that she could not restrain. “A-er, if it’s not improper, of course.”

“Oh, it’s not improper at all, as long as you call me Hermione as well,” Hermione said, startled by both her boldness and daring when she leaned in, her hand grabbing onto his shoulder and squeezing. That was—

Had she drunk too much? Had she completely lost her mind?

Before Hermione could ponder long on this new and shocking development, however, Riddle smiled and she was lost to the way his lashes fanned over his eyes. The gesture transformed his face into something that made her stomach clench, the haze of her nerves sharpen.

_Oh._

She recognized it,  _knew_ , that look. She had seen it countless times, reflected from the surface of her vanity when gazing at the mounds of books on her desk directly across from it.

It was hunger. It was thirst.

Hermione’s mouth went dry, tongue gliding over her bottom lip. His eyes darkened then, his irises flickering from her eyes to her lips, and back.

Then his hand was on hers, the digits weaving through the gaps of her fingers, soft and delicate as the brush of a butterfly’s wings.

“Well then, Hermione—” Tom said, and Hermione couldn’t stop the grin that broke out on her face, taken in by the humor in his eyes and the way his touch warmed her from her arm down to her belly.

It’d been too long since she’d touched someone else like this. Her and Ron, before their spat, had already been past the point of no return. They hadn’t been intimate in years, and Hermione had never been more conscious of this fact that at this moment.

“I would love to get to know you better. Particularly, about your essays regarding time Warden’s time travel theory of the infinite universe, and how instances of time travel result in the creation of alternate universes.”

Hermione blinked. To say she’d been caught off-guard was an understatement.

“You’re interested in  _time travel_?” Hermione started, but stopped, when his thumb began to trace over her knuckles. It was distracting in the most inappropriate way.

She tried in vain to settle the racing beat of her heart at the grin that broke on his face, at the way his teeth shone in that dazzling ballroom. But there was no resisting that, her mouth had gone entirely dry.

“It isn’t my best work, I will admit. I was still very much a student when I prepared that essay.”

He laughed then, the sound richer than the instrumentals in the background, more encompassing and thought-provoking than the voices that echoed in the room.

 _Merlin_.

She wondered if this man was fae, if he had bewitched her somehow. It was difficult to string a thought together, to not shudder when his thumb continued to touch her that way. The fact she hadn’t removed her hand from where she’d clamped it over his shoulder was testament enough.

“I will have to disagree. I found your essay quite  _enthralling_. Much like the author.”

Heat spread over her cheeks, her mouth opening and closing with a surprised ‘o’ at his boldness.

_Was he—_

_No_ , Hermione admonished herself.  _Not possible_.

It sounded almost as if— _dare she say it_ —he was flirting with her? But that wasn’t possible. For all his beauty, for all his charisma and boyishness, he was  _young_. Like he was fresh out of Hogwarts, or, quite possibly, a  _student_ —

_He’s quite the charmer, that Tom._

Hermione snatched her hand back as if burned, a cold wave of realization making her dizzy.

His name was Tom, and—

_A common name. How many Tom have you met, do you know?_

“I-er, well, thank you very much, Tom. I am flattered that you find my work interesting.” Hermione was flustered and embarrassed, her face so hot she feared she was starting to look like a drunken Slughorn, with cheeks red as a tomato.

 _Oh gods. If this was a student_ —

She had to be twice his age, being that she had just turned twenty-seven already. Even being the youngest witch to take the mantle of Minister, it was still scandalous. Inappropriate, no less, to be seen in public flirting with someone who could only be seventeen.

“But, tell me, are you a fresh graduate? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you before.”

Tom paused, head tilting to one side. It was distinct, jarring in a way that Hermione could not explain.

“No, I am not.”

There was an undercurrent in Tom’s voice, one she couldn’t quite place, and then he was smiling once again, but this time—

The warmth did not touch his eyes. It looked all wrong. She didn’t know what to make of that, of  _him_.

“I am a seventh-year student.”

All the air seemed to have vanished from her lungs.

_No. No, no, no, no—_

Hermione took a step back, hand reaching blindly for a drink because she needed one desperately.

_Oh gods._

She had been  _flirting_  with an adolescent boy. A handsome one, of course, and one that had shed much of his boyhood with the way his robes fit him and his face had little to none of the roundness of childhood, but—

He had to be at most  _seventeen_.

“Hermione?” Tom asked, and Hermione wanted to wince, wanted to storm out of that ballroom to both compose and berate herself for her oversight.

God, she hoped no one had seen, that Rita Skeeter was not present to bear witness to her thoroughly embarrass herself in front of a sodding  _teen_.

“Are you alright?” He approached, but Hermione lifted her hand before he could get any closer. He stopped immediately. Hermione barely managed to suppress her relieved sigh. She didn’t know what she might have done if he had touched her.

Riddle’s brows rose, a surprised expression flitting over his face before it melted away into nothing. His face had gone blank, and Hermione didn’t know if she should be unsettled or relieved at how quickly he could sort through his emotions. It spoke of immense control and poise, a trait that was not typical of a boy just beginning to stretch his wings.

“I’m fine, no need to concern yourself with me. I was just under the impression I was speaking to an adult, is all.”

There was a tick to his jaw that Hermione nearly missed before it was smoothed away, and a contrite expression took its place.

 _Odd_.

“I apologize if I gave you that impression, Minister,” the title made the hairs on her arms stand on end, the unease more alive now than it had been moments earlier, “I didn't mean to deceive you. I had thought we could talk more, discuss your work in more detail.”

A shadow passed over his features then, crestfallen. Hermione didn’t know what to do about it, her mouth now hanging open in surprise.

Had she misinterpreted his intentions? Could she have assumed too much without truly understanding his intentions? Her stomach wrenched with guilt, more perturbed at the fact she  _herself_  had confused his genuine interest in her career for something else.

“I find you admirable and an inspiration. If my age makes you uncomfortable, I shall interfere no further in your enjoyment of the festivities—”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary. I was simply caught off guard. I didn’t expect someone as young as you to be so invested in my research.”

Hermione smiled, tentative, and the boy straightened, his eyes burning with something that made her skin break out in gooseflesh. It wasn’t untoward, but there was something more to it, she knew—

But what that was, Hermione couldn’t say.

“Brilliant. Then please, why don’t we find somewhere quieter to chat? It’s a bit loud in the ballroom, don’t you think?”

Hermione was inclined to agree. Now that the shock and attraction had all been doused, the ruckus of the festivities had come back with full force.

The music was blaring, the number more fast-paced than the earlier tunes. There was loud, boisterous laughter behind her at the alcohol table, and there were crowds of people, all speaking at the same time, milling about with full glasses of alcohol.

It would be a disservice to attempt to discuss time travel in this setting.

So with that, Hermione nodded, her hand latching onto the first drink her fingers found and stepped away from the table.

“Tom, I think you might be right.”

* * *

 

“Fascinating,” Tom breathed, his eyes appraising her with newfound interest. Hermione tried not to smile, sipping at her champagne with more gusto than she should. It wouldn’t do for her to become inebriated in public. After all, she had a reputation to maintain.

It wouldn’t be difficult for Skeeter to paint her in an unflattering light if Hermione gave her all the tools she could ever need for her own character assassination, and yet—

Hermione found that she couldn’t stop drinking, not with the way Tom was looking at her, how he spoke to her about her research and work. She wasn’t starved for praise, she received more of it now than she’d ever had in her time in Hogwarts as a student, but—

Tom was brilliant. Truly. He knew exactly what to say.

“Are you suggesting that it is possible to create a time turner that can, in fact, traverse time for longer than a short period of time, then? Your hypothesis in your paper seems to imply that that might be possible.”

Hermione let out a slow breath when he leaned in closer, the shadows of the corridor they had found done little to settle the flush of awareness that possessed her. It was silly really, that even now, after she’d firmly chided herself for flirting with an adolescent, she somehow found herself caught in his snare.

Before, it had been his face: pretty with long-lashes and impeccably styled hair. But now, however, that brain of his was doing a number on her, making her doubt her decision on leaving the safety of Slughorn's Christmas party to talk privately.

“There is not much research into that particular question, but there is a theory that time turners can be created with that particular goal in mind. However—”

Hermione paused, swallowing when Tom leaned closer on the bench. His aftershave flooded her senses, drowning her in twin scents of sandalwood and something darker. Richer. She couldn’t quite place it.

It made her mouth water.

“—there are certain risks with creating such a powerful device. In my paper, I did not address in depth the risks that it might entail, but given the precarious nature of time travel and the few studies conducted in that field, it is hardly surprising that not much has been done to cultivate that research.”

Tom’s eyes glinted in the dark, like the dark scales of a black mamba. Pretty and smooth, like an oil slick. Hermione fell into them despite herself, her thoughts scrambling at the sight of his pupils contracting.

They were too close, their heads level. By all accounts, she should have had the sense to pull back and revive the air of professional propriety she had donned in the ballroom after learning of his age.

Tom’s lips quirked into a half-smile, the expression making his eyes darken further. Hermione’s mouth went dry.

“And what might those consequences be, Minister?” Tom asked, voice now a low purr. Hermione’s insides clenched, her fingers tightening on her flute of champagne to the point of pain.

It was a good thing she’d had the mind to spell it from shattering, the spectacle earlier in the ballroom with Slughorn had made her more than aware of how easy it could be to break glass.

“Well, I have it on good authority that jumping too far back, if we  _did_  manage to curb the devastating effects time travel does to the human body, that it could create several alternate dimensions. One would not only  _rewrite_  history but could potentially create a whole new universe—”

Tom perked at that, his slight-smile growing into something exceedingly wider. Hermione froze at the expression on his face. His eyes were glittering like precious stone, awe, and fascination and something else swimming in their depths.

She hardly noticed when his hand came up to rest on her shoulder, a finger twinning around a loose curl that escaped the tight bun she’d wrestled her hair into.

“And what,  _Hermione_ —” he murmured, lips spreading into a smile that was enough to make her insides hot and cold. It was hungry, predatory. It should have unsettled her to see it, that the shy boy she’d been talking to in the ballroom had all but vanished in much the same way they had when they’d left the ballroom.

But it didn’t. Her senses were blunted. Between the alcohol and low the indolent way he toyed with her hair, Hermione couldn’t think to move, to be  _afraid_.

“—is this good authority? You included some marvelous sources in your paper, from Wagnesworth’s Theory on Alternate Dimensions and History to Millicent’s Essay on Magical Conversion Theory on Time, but wherever did you piece together this particular conclusion?”

Hermione gasped when the finger became five, her fingers releasing her champagne flute to snatch at that hand, to stop it from sinking completely into her hair.

His eyes hadn’t changed, but something else did. There was a shift, a spark of something dark and feral that made her teeth ache, made it difficult to breathe.

She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not. This was...exceedingly out of her expertise.

“Tell me,  _where_  is your source?”

Hermione’s mouth opened, but no words came. All the blood had rushed to her head, making it swim.

She gripped his wrist tighter, a warning and a promise all at once. She didn’t understand what was happening. Why she could scarcely breathe in this boy’s presence—

Cold realization hit her like a slap to the face.

_The champagne._

Swallowing, Hermione tried to catalog the sensations thrumming through her, to understand the symptoms she was exhibiting.

_Rapid heart rate.  Visual impairment. Dry mouth. Elevated body temperature._

A cold fury consumed her, thick enough to choke and force a harsh breath from out of her nostrils.

_He’d drugged me._

“Ah.”

Tom’s lips spread into a rueful smile, almost apologetic. The expression did not meet his eyes.

“I was wondering when you’d notice. I was beginning to lose faith in the Wizarding World, as it was, that the  _Minister_  of all things could not detect that their senses had been impaired.”

“W-what did you  _slip_  into my drink?” Hermione gasped, grip loosening on his wrist when her vision went dark for half a second, Tom’s face fading in and out of view.

“Nothing life-threatening, if that’s your concern.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, to berate, to yell, to  _scream_ , but no words came. Her vocal cords failed her. She couldn’t even control her magic for long enough to shove him aside.

Sweat began to gather in the nape of her neck, and roll down her forehead in tiny little rivulets. She felt them, could pinpoint precisely where they trickled from her body, and she wanted to die.

Her senses were heightened to the point of point, of overstimulation. Like a panic attack, one she’d suffered many years ago when she’d been juggling too many lessons during her third year.

His hand found her throat, and Hermione barely bit back a wail when the heat of his palm consumed her, scalded her like a brand. It was agony. Pure and unadulterated pain.

It was too much.

“For now, of course. But that is all contingent on you.”

Hermione blinked back tears, her teeth catching on her bottom lip to contain the sob when his hand wrapped around her throat and he pushed her into the wall, the tiny grooves in the stone shooting arcs of pain up and down her spine. 

“What do you w-want?” Hermione hissed, jaw clenched when his fingers did not move away but began to massage the skin. It was like he was flaying her alive, the touch was compounded into itself.

It was absurd how something as innocuous as fingers resting over her neck could make her want to bite her tongue until she choked on her own blood.

Riddle grinned, eyes glinting with something amused and vile. It made Hermione want to throw up, to be violently ill all over his pretty dress robes.

His thumb trailed over her racing pulse point, and Hermione shrank into herself, her hands shaking and sweating with pinpricks of pain. Touching him hurt, being touched hurt more. She had never been more thoroughly cornered in her life, and Merlin, how it rankled.

_To be bested by an adolescent, a boy that hadn’t even graduated from Hogwarts yet._

Hermione wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. It was pathetic.

“Oh, no need to be frightened,” Tom said, voice low and sweet. Hermione tried not to gag at the sugary tone, at the malicious amusement in his eyes.

Hermione didn’t know what she looked like, couldn’t see herself reflected in the dark of his eyes, but she could only imagine how disheveled and weak she must look then. A pitiful witch.

Hermione seethed even as her nerves sang with pain and devastation, as Tom’s fingers continued to touch her, trace unfathomable shapes into her exposed neck.

“I would like for us to work together.”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath when he leaned in, his breath fanning against her cheek. It made her insides squirm. Even his breath made her burn, made her want to scrub herself raw.

She couldn’t wait until the drug wore off, until she could dig her wand into his throat and hex him within an inch of his life for  _threatening_  her, for tricking her into heading into some darkened hallway  _alone_.

She should have known better than to think he was truly interested in her work.

“Oh no need to fret, dove,” Tom said as if reading her thoughts, his hand sliding away from throat to her cheek. Hermione’s throat convulsed, her eyes falling shut from the sharp pinpricks that touch evoked.

It was like a hundred bloody needles had been stabbed into her cheek, piercing the flesh until nothing but little dots oozed from the surface.

“You never stood a chance. Even as powerful and intelligent as you are, you are weak to flattery and a pretty face, much like everyone else,” Tom said, his words neither mocking nor cruel. Like he was stating a fact.

Anger boiled in her belly, nevertheless.

“And, this world is unbelievably soft. You have not been hardened by war, you have not been trained to be wary, to notice a predator that hides behind the guise of an innocent creature.”

Hermione shook when his eyes took on a far-away look, as if he were reliving his own life. His hand did not pull away from her cheek, however. It remained glued to her face, petting it in much the same way she ran her fingers over her familiar’s fur when she was alone in her flat.

“You are not Hermione Granger, the hardened war veteran. The third member of Harry Potter’s little group of undesirables.

Hermione flinched when his nails dug into her skin, violent and ruthless.

She didn’t understand. She hadn’t seen Harry in years since they’d graduated. And even then, when they had been in school, they could hardly be considered friends.

A gorge rose up in her throat, her vision flickering in and out when the fire began to spread from where his fingers had pressed against her cheek, like a corrosive agent. She couldn’t scream, the pain was too much.

“No, here, there was no  _Voldemort_. No Dark Lord to make you run and hide. No reason to obliviate your own muggle parents in fear that he would find and torture them within an inch of their pitiful lives.”

The grip eased, but the terror did not. It was a vice crushing her windpipe.

Her vision was still swimming, but Tom’s eyes were the clearest thing in the room. The hatred, the fire and the loathing in them took her breath away, and she wanted nothing more than to run.

She’d never seen something so  _wrong_  in the face of someone so young. It didn’t fit.

“No, dove. You had nothing to  _fear_  here—” he crooned, the hatred in his eyes receding until his face was a cold dead mask. Only his smile remained, but Merlin, how she wanted to run.

“Why, you’re a  _minister_ , in this version of yourself.”

Tom’s hand fell away from her cheek to wrap around her neck. The pain bled into the rush of blood swimming in her ears, thunderous and deafening. Hermione didn’t dare move, her body instinctively knowing when it was within the snare of a vicious predator.

If only it had caught onto the charade much sooner. It was too late now.

“And so very vulnerable. Almost ridiculously so.”

His fingers squeezed until her breaths became ragged. Hermione didn’t dare grab his wrist this time, unwilling to elicit more pain by touching him more than was necessary.

“What do you  _want_?” Hermione repeated, teeth catching on her bottom lip when his thumb stopped over her pulse. She tried not to think too hard about the way his eyes appraised her, lingered in that area as if he were contemplating slicing it open.

He could. Easily. One well-placed slicing hex or even the sharpened blade of a knife would suffice.

“What I want is  _you_ ,” he said, eyes flashing red and teeth turning up into a vicious smile.

Hermione had one second to digest his words before a laugh erupted from her throat, painful and raw. Incredulous.

He was bloody mad if he thought she would comply, that she’d let him cow her into doing as he pleased. She had been stupid enough to get the best of her at this party, not at all expecting that he’d drug her in plain sight, but next time—

She wouldn’t make this stupid mistake again.

“You’re bloody mad. Me? What could I possibly give you? What makes you think I’d ever willingly  _work_  with you? What makes you think that I won’t turn around and arrest you for drugging me?”

Tom’s expression cooled into a hard mask, glacial. It froze her to the bone when he leaned in until his lips were brushing hers, the loose curls on his head that had broken away from his meticulous hairstyle brushing against her forehead.

The brief brush of contact was enough to make her bones ache, her blood become acid in her veins. Still, Hermione didn’t flinch.

“Your muggle parents are dentists working in London, are they not?” He asked. Hermione stiffened at the knowing gleam in his eyes. “And your ex-husband, Ronald Weasley, he is residing with his family, I take?”

Hermione’s heart nearly stuttered to a halt in her chest, anticipating the direction this line of inquiry would go.

“They’re not particularly conscious of their surroundings, are they? Unaware of the cruelty hidden behind the rose-tinted veneer of Albus Dumbledore and his success against the Dark wizard Grindelwald,” Tom continued, his nails digging into her throat.

Hermione barely bit back her scream.

_Don’t break. Don’t break._

“The world is not nearly as kind as it used to be. Not anymore. And if you do not wish to bring unnecessary suffering into your life, I suggest that you listen carefully.”

Hermione closed her eyes, trying not to flinch.

“You will swear an unbreakable vow and you will work beside me. Your research is invaluable and your position of power is desirable.”

The words were spoken directly to her lips, hot and violent like the pangs of pain shooting up and down her spine with each brush of contact.

“That is, if you do not wish your loved ones to meet the same fate as Albus Dumbledore. It was quite a gruesome death, I understand. Quite difficult to put him back together after he’d been taken apart slowly.”

Hermione didn’t blink, didn’t tremble even when her insides shuddered violently at the mention of her old headmaster’s name.

He had been murdered not too long ago. No one knew who had done it. The man had had many enemies, truthfully, but none of the logical suspects could be pinned down for his murder. It was as if he’d been struck down by a ghost, by an angel of death that wanted nothing more than to see the old man suffer.

His death had not been a quick or merciful one. It had been torture, the state of his body enough to make even seasoned wizards gag at the sight of his corpse.

Dread consumed her.

No one in the public knew the precise details of Dumbledore’s death. They’d kept that information contained. There was no need to terrify the masses, to let them be consumed with panic that there was the possibility of a serial killer in their midst.

Hermione tried not to hyperventilate as the pieces all came together.

“Y-you killed Dumbledore?” Hermione’s voice cracked at the edges, splintered. She could hardly believe the statement even as her mind pieced it all together.

A seventeen-year-old boy had killed the greatest wizard of all time?

“I did,” Tom confessed, voice sounding soft and reassuring. Hermione felt anything but, alarmed by the smile that split his face in half, wide and filled with terrifying joy. This was possibly the most honest Hermione had ever seen him.

She wanted to be sick.

“You cannot imagine how wonderful it was, to watch the light drain from his eyes. Confused and in pain, uncertain of what he was being punished for,” Tom elaborated, his fingers gently stroking her neck.

The pain hardly registered now, not when she was numb with pure terror.

“But I couldn’t have him in the way, no. Not this time around, not when I needed  _you_  cornered and alone, with no one to help you.”

Tom pulled away, his hand finally releasing its hold on her throat. Hermione didn’t have it within herself to be relieved. Her mind was in chaos. She was drowning in Tom’s cruelty.

“There is no Harry Potter to ally yourself with here. There is no Ronald Weasley to stroke your cheek at night and comfort you. No one here knows just what I am, except for you. And no one will think me, a doe-eyed schoolboy is capable of such manifest cruelty.”

Tom stood from the bench, the sconces from the dimly lit hallway casting shadows on his face. He was like an angel of death, standing there. Dark-haired and young and handsome, with his eyes glowing with unadulterated rapture.

He was right, of course. No one would think the perpetrator of the most violent crime since Grindelwald's regime had been orchestrated by an adolescent boy. No one would point their fingers at him. Not at handsome, talented, and shy Tom Riddle.

Hatred consumed her, both for herself and the monster in front of her.

“Do you understand your position,  _Hermione_?” Riddle asked, teeth white and sharp like the fangs of a predatory creature. His eyes appraised her, watching her carefully. It was as if he were committing this moment to memory.

“Fuck you,” Hermione said instead, rage and fear and horror a confusing twist in the center of her chest.

Tom cocked his head to the side, an animalistic gesture that was far too reminiscent of the snakes Hermione had seen from behind the glass containers at the zoo. It made her insides curl with unease in spite of the rage swimming in her belly.

His hand reached for something in his pocket, and Hermione flinched, shutting her eyes. This was it. He was going to curse her.

Except, nothing happened.

There was the sound of something clacking, glass-like, in the stillness and then—

Hermione opened her eyes at the same time he tossed something in her direction.

She caught it without thought, fingers shaking at the sting of pain even that small gesture elicited. Sucking back the pain, Hermione inspected the item in her hands.

It was a vial, filled to the top with a bright blue liquid.

Hermione didn’t uncork it, suspicious of what its contents might contain.

“Drink it. It will cancel the effects of the potion still in your system.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, unwilling to open it and obey. She didn’t trust him. If he was capable of murdering someone in cold blood, he certainly would have no trouble lying to her and poisoning her within the same breath.

“Silly girl, I have no interest in killing you. You’re worth more to me alive than dead.”

Still, Hermione made no motion to take it. She outright refused to cooperate. She’d rather die than do anything the bastard wanted.

There was no warning. He moved silently. His face had been clear and expressionless before he struck.

His hand threaded through the strands of her hair, ripping out the hairpins she’d stuffed into the locks to keep her hair contained, and pulled her to her feet. A cry tore from her throat, tears burning at the corner of her eyes from the fire that shot through her, as if she’d been left to burn at the stake.

Something hard and cold pushed against her mouth, and Hermione had only one instance to make out that it was that vial before its contents were tipped into her mouth and she was forced to swallow.

It burned down her esophagus in much the same way Firewhiskey did, and Hermione gagged and sputtered, shuddering in Tom’s hold before she collapsed against him.

The fire had been put out. The pain, the rapid racing of her heart, the sluggishness: all of it dissipated like nothing. She was floating in nothing until a weight curled around her waist, the sting in the back of her head easing as well.

She didn’t know how long she remained this way, but once she’d managed to gather her bearings, to stop her vision from going in and out of focus, she tried to move.

Only to realize she could not.

She stiffened, noticing then the hot and heavy weight on her waist and the fingers still curled possessively in her hair. The strands were no longer contained, wild and curling along the corners of her eyes.

But that was not what had her frozen stiff.

It was the pair of eyes watching her inches away. It was the tickle of his warm breath against her cheek that made her insides churn.

Hermione’s hands pressed against his chest, ready to push him away when a white light flashed, blinding her.

All the color drained from her face at the familiar giggle and the click of heels that came seconds thereafter.

_No._

“My my, Minister  _Granger_ ,” the familiar drawl of Rita Skeeter’s words made her skin crawl, and finally gave Hermione the courage she needed to shove away from Tom’s hold.

Hermione rounded on the woman with her wand raised and pointed.

_No. No. No. No._

This was terrible. The last thing Hermione needed right now was to be on the front cover of the bloody Daily Prophet.

“You’ve definitely got taste, I’ll give you that,” Skeeter’s eyes shifted away from Hermione’s furious face to glance to her left, clearly taking in the dashing and attractive features on Tom Riddle’s face.

Hermione wanted to be sick, to hex the woman within an inch of her life.

She didn’t, of course. Not when she was minister, when the bloody mad woman had a picture of her with Tom, a student nearly a decade younger than her.

“Don’t you  _dare_ , Skeeter. It’s not what it looks like—”

Riddle’s hand clasped over her shoulder, hot and heavy, enough to make her words die in her throat. It squeezed her, and it was all the warning she had before he was pulling her against him.

If she hadn’t seen the monster hidden beneath the careful mask he donned, she might have been fooled into thinking it a protective stance. But it wasn’t. If anything, it was almost like he was—

Skeeter smiled at them, her magical quill scribbling away furiously.

“Oh, no, don’t stop on my account. I’ve acquired all that I needed.”

Then, before Hermione could think to stop her, to rip away from Riddle’s bloody hold on her, Skeeter turned on her heels, the clack of her shoes fading out as she turned a corner and disappeared from Hermione’s line of vision.

Hermione swore something foul beneath her breath, shoving out of Riddle’s hold and glowering at him with the vilest expression she could muster.

“Have you  _any_  idea what you’ve just done?” Hermione seethed, her wand rounding on him until it was buried beneath his chin, uncaring of the fact that he’d drugged her mere moments earlier before confessing that he was a bloody psychopath.

His lips quirked into a smile, sharp and amused before his hand lifted to curl over her wand. He wasn’t afraid that she might curse him.

That only made her angrier, the curse sitting precariously on the tip of her tongue.

His smile morphed into a grin.

“Do you often ask questions you already know the answer to?”

Hermione huffed, fingers clasping so tightly around her wand that they ached. She should curse him, she knew. He deserved it. There would be no other opportunity, no other chance to make him pay for his crimes.

_But do you really think you stand a chance against him when he took down the greatest wizard of all time? In your condition, no less?_

“Put down your wand, Hermione.”

He didn’t stop smiling, but there was something in his tone. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was, but she complied nevertheless, dropping her wand but not quite tucking it away in her holster.

“Now then, I believe we have an unbreakable vow we need done.”

Terror twisted in her stomach at the sly gleam of his eyes, his lips curling cruelly over the sides and splitting open like an open wound, bleeding from its edges. It was horrifying, that smile. It was pleased and overjoyed.

Hermione never thought someone’s happiness could be that frightening, but Tom somehow managed to exceed her expectations.

“After you.”

Riddle gestured to the darkened hallway, and Hermione, with a stiff set to her shoulders, remained rooted into place. She would much rather bite out her own tongue than allow him to follow behind her where she couldn’t see him.

“I’d much rather walk at your side, thank you.” Her voice was sweet, but the way she clutched at her wand was anything but kind.

Tom laughed, low and soft. It made the hairs on Hermione’s arms stand on end to hear it.

“Then, by all means.”

They moved at the exact same time, their footsteps loud and deafening in the empty corridor.

Where they were going, Hermione wasn’t certain. Not that it mattered.

Hell wasn’t a place grounded in the real plane.

But with Tom at her side, Hermione had to wonder if the devil himself had not crawled from the pits of hell itself to take her down with him.

It was a difficult situation, indeed. But, as her father once said:

_Corner an animal and that is when it's most dangerous._

Her circumstances would not be grim for long. Not if she had a say in it.


End file.
